


Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame

by pearypie



Series: stars in your eyes (or: the Hamilton chronicles) [3]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 04:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7962385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearypie/pseuds/pearypie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Francis Phantomhive finds herself alone at a German soiree hosted by a mysterious patron - but that doesn't stop her from making his acquaintance. </p><p>(Or: the first meeting of Francis Phantomhive and Diedrich, Baron Weizsäcker.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intelligent eyes in a hunger-pang frame

_I remember that night, I just might/ regret that night for the rest of my days./ I remember those solider boys tripping over themselves to win our praise,/ I remember that dreamlike, candlelight like a dream that you can’t quite place,/ but Alexander, I’ll never forget the first time I saw your face._ — Angelica Schuyler ‘Satisfied’ 

* * *

 

The domed pentagon of the enormous painted ballroom is colored in lavish, expensive hues melding, in their splendid decor, into an effusive dream of pale blue and heavy gold. With its dense theatricality and low crystal chandeliers that are the size of small carriages, the room demands veneration and applause. A direct contrast, some might think, to the severe austerity of the German nobleman who owns this castle. 

The angled folds of the room are decorated with pillars of stucco work marble, all complete in hues of red, white, and yellow, as if to connote Poseidon’s sea nymphs and their waterlily hair. Lady Francis Phantomhive strolls its outer premises, a flute of French champagne in hand while her sharp jade eyes take in the subtle preening of Europe’s aging aristocrats and the inconspicuous business transactions bankrupting soul and spirit around her. It is an overwhelming sight she has grown accustomed to, though, tonight, she was not supposed to be here. 

Vincent—that silver tongued, honey eyed serpent—had lambasted her to agitation until she’d agreed to accompany him on a “brief trip” that somehow became a week long stay in the German countryside. She loved, loathed, and wished to pummel her brother in equal measure. _That sly, sneaking_ ** _bastard_** _._

_“Sister dearest, it seems providence has called and I’ve now_ **_just_ ** _found myself wracked with responsibility—“_

_“You lying, irreparable charlatan.”_

_He grins, beautifully insincere. “You’ll have to go in my stead. Diedrich will be dreadfully upset if a Phantomhive doesn’t make an appearance.”_

_“I want to drown you in the River Thames.”_

_“Ah, fairest Francis—“_

_“No.”_

_He takes her hand in a dreadfully cliche manner. “Do me this one favor sister dearest and I will forever be in your debt.”_

_“You ought to write that statement on your forehead.” She scowls. “It’s the fourteenth time you’ve said it.”_

_“You’ll like Diedrich.”_

_“I don’t even know what the man looks like!”_

_“Tall. Stately. Fine German dog.”_

_“If he likes you then I’m inclined to dislike him.”_

_Vincent—her lying, deceitful, aggravating brother—feigns shock. “But you mustn’t! Otherwise he’ll never let me hear the end of it. Don’t you know how many hearts you’ve broken in England, sister dear?”_

_“Yes, well, if I’m half as talented as you say I am then I’m tempted to try and devastate you as well.”_

_Vincent presses a chaste kiss to her knuckles. “It’s only for an hour, Francis darling.”_

_Her eyes narrow._

_The earl grins—he knows he’s just about secured victory._

_“And Francis—do try to smile while you’re there. I won’t be responsible for your eminent spinsterhood.” Quick as those words leave his mouth, Vincent ducks out of the room right as Francis—with her marksman’s aim—throws a glass vase at his head._

 

* * *

 

And now she is here, wandering around a heavily stylized German ballroom, champagne in hand, and feigning boredom while listening to the select chatter of sirs and ladies whose station has drawn the attention of the Queen’s Watchdog. She has a good ear and can speak over five languages, including Danish; this incongruous show of magpies offers more wisdom than even the most frenzied torture session. 

She continues circling the ballroom in between small sips of sickly sweet champagne until she spies a tall, dark haired man standing in the most aloof manner in a distant, shadowed corner. He is military, Francis knows this on instinct—the straight, tensely erect posture is an impressive sight and his black uniform, finely pressed and without fault, is the plainest and most dignified thing in this entire room. 

Francis approaches without hesitation. 

“Sir.” She gives a shallow but perfectly polite curtsey. 

He glances towards her, expression cold, severe, and perfectly German. It only takes him half a second to give her a nod in return. 

“Fräulein.” 

“Countess, actually.” Francis corrects, moving to stand by him. Her title matters very little to her but she’s always been a woman of propriety, etiquette, and nobility. It will not do to make exceptions for any one man. 

He arches a brow though his expression remains unchanged. “Pfalzgräfin.” 

“I am not from Palatine.” 

“Na richer. But _gräfin_ does not suit the English ear and I know how dearly you English value your phonics.” 

_Phonics._

The corner of Francis’s lip twitches, a smile threatening to blossom on her usually downturned mouth. “You must have had an encounter with a very particular Englishman.” 

“Ja.” 

“Shall I guess who?” Her eyes flit towards the ballroom and then back at him. “It would be an amusing game to pass the time—unless I am keeping you from other company.” 

“No.” He returns, shoulders firm, countenance grim, and hands clasped behind his back. “I find myself in a position of temporary leisure.” 

She almost comments on his deliberate statement but chooses instead to sip at the still bubbly champagne. “May I posit that this Englishman is part of her majesty’s court?” 

He gives a slight, imperceptible nod. 

“And that he is of a derisive nature, with the sort of sanity that causes you to wonder why he has not been committed?” Her voice is light, almost playful, and Francis blames it on the champagne. 

The tall German officer tilts his head towards her and she is suddenly struck by the darkness of his eyes. They _burn,_  repressed with emotion and fiery contemplation and, suddenly, in one brief, mad moment, she wants to ask him every question under the sun, no matter how simple, just to hear the passion in his answers. Francis manages to shake herself out of this strange stupor to catch a fleeting glance of his strong, angular jaw and high cheekbones. 

There is also, she notes, a facet of surprise in his stoic expression—as if he did not expect to be even mildly amused but habit dictated he display nothing to the contrary. Instead, the German gives another nod—this one slightly more noticeable than the one given previously. 

“Shall I now astound you with my capacity for deductions?” 

His lips press together, as if holding back a smile. “I am of an unambiguous nature. If you so wish to unveil your choice, so be it.” 

“Are you always so acquiescent?” 

“I see nothing in your statement that is inherently disagreeable.” 

Francis relents, and a half-smile appears on her mouth. His eyes, dark, mysterious, and burning, are temporarily drawn to it but he recovers with a speed Francis is not at all satisfied with. He is, within seconds, looking straight ahead again. 

She counters with a verbal riposte—

“Vincent Phantomhive.” 

—and with a certainty bred by familiarity, he looks back down in her direction and she decides that yes, this must be the Diedrich her brother spoke in riddles about. 

“I think he is most disagreeable.” She offers and he looks tempted to chase her offer with a nod of agreement but restrains himself from such truth. “If you wish to say a statement that might bolster his image…” 

“I believe his confidence could use something of the opposite effect.” He returns with a huff of indignation that Francis finds both humorous and charming. 

“You’re very rude you know.” She says matter-of-factly. 

This catches the man by surprise. “Pardon?” 

“I have spoken with you for an indecently long time and have yet to learn your name. You would be desecrated in English society for such a folly.” 

He blinks. “Indeed?” 

“Oh yes.” 

He frowns and looks away, as if the dancing patrons before him could answer all of life’s mysteries though, in the end, he merely glances at a crystal chandelier before returning his gaze unto Francis once more. “Apologies.” He nods stiffly. Then, in one sharp, swift moment, gives her a formal bow. “Diedrich Weizsäcker of the same barony.”

She is unsurprised. 

“We are in your castle.” 

“Indeed.” He confirms and proffers nothing else—no show of false modesty or blue-blooded history. 

Francis finds his abstinent behavior refreshingly direct and most welcome against this backdrop of superfluous wealth. 

They stood there then, in a moment of silent contemplation not at all disconcerting—in fact, if she wished to name the strange sensation that calmed both her rigid distaste and her discriminatory eye—she might say it was amiability. Or something of a warmer feeling though _that_ was far too sentimental for someone like Francis Phantomhive. 

“Countess?” 

She glances towards him. “Sir?” 

“An English waltz will next be played.” Francis does not ask how he knows for Diedrich, Baron Weizsäcker, and owner of this magnificent castle, looks oddly uncomfortable. He stands with even more formality than before. “If you would…?” 

She refuses to budge. “Finish your thought.” 

He looks at her—surprised, pleased, and faintly amused. “You are a very forthright woman.” 

“If you missed that observation then I would have no choice but to blame myself for talking to a cinderblock.” 

He laughs then—a faint, quiet chuckle that would have been missed by someone of a fainter heart—though there is surprise infused in the sound, as if Francis had, by virtue of her ingenuity, tricked him into it. He turns to face her fully and, this time, she thinks she can denote a hint of affection in his burning eyes, one that is new and starving, desiring cultivation and familiarity. 

“My lady.” He addresses and somehow, these words sound uniquely intimate when said in his voice, tinged with a slight German accent. “If I may?” He offers her his hand, waiting. 

And Francis, propelled by momentum and something else she cannot describe, takes it.

 

* * *

 

They are mid-waltz when Diedrich agrees that Vincent Phantomhive is an insufferable brat but that she is a beautifully unique exception to the bloodline. 

Francis, when she hears this, laughs. 

**Author's Note:**

> \- I modeled Diedrich’s ballroom after the Kaisersaal at the Würzburg Residence in Germany. It was commissioned by the prince-bishop around 1720. 
> 
> \- Also I have no idea what Diedrich’s surname is so I just used his barony in its place. 
> 
> A/N: Diedrich/Francis! Another favorite crack!ship of mine ^-^


End file.
